Roll Out the Barrel
by FraidyCat
Summary: It's a Oneshot. The team is called in by another office, and Charlie goes along. Then, he wants to see the crime scene from a unique perspective.


**Title: Roll Out the Barrel**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Summary: Decompression with a Depression Chaser Equals: An Odd Oneshot.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.**

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don paced like a caged animal — which was appropriate, considering the setting. Colby's broad back separated him from the table on which Charlie lay, squirming, while the sports medicine doctor stitched up a cut on his forehead.

He looked ridiculous. Hair teased beyond its usual unruliness, and spray-painted orange. A neon-green, oversized pair of shorts held up by bright red suspenders, over a checkered shirt. The blood spatters were almost lost in the noise. A striped, multi-colored tie hung almost to his knees, which were shaking. Two different colored socks disappeared into Nikes, of all things. His face was white. Actually white. Even if he hadn't been wearing clown make-up at the moment, it probably would have been anyway.

Don tried again to push past Colby. "I just want to know what the hell you were thinking," he growled. His fingers actually itched to wrap themselves around Charlie's throat and squeeze until there was some color in that face. Granger had spent time on the football field. He effectively zigged with Don's zag and kept his running back safe — if flat on his back in sports medicine qualified as 'safe'.

One of Charlie's feet jerked and he grunted softly. Don tried not to let that tiny reminder of his brother's pain squelch his anger. "DAMMIT!", he yelled, spinning on his heel and pacing away from Colby.

"I-I was running s-some num-numbers," Charlie said in a tiny voice. Before he had squeezed his eyes shut, he had seen the look on Don's face, as well as Colby running interference. He was trying to decide whether to give Colby a vintage Mustang or a condo in Hawaii.

Colby tried to reason with Don. "That is why we all came tonight," he pointed out. "To get a feel for the crime scene. You've gotta admit, Don, this case isn't something any of us have much experience with."

"Shut. Up." Don had paced to the corner where the agent from the local office stood looking at his feet. Don planted himself in front of him and poked him in the chest. "You. No wonder half your damn office is under investigation. What kind of FBI agent lets a civilian consultant talk him into a stunt like this?" He half-turned and glared at Colby's back. "I knew we shouldn't have brought Charlie with us."

The back of Colby's head began to burn and he rubbed a hand over his neck and winked at Charlie. His eyes were open wide now, either in pain, or fear – or both. Colby spun and looked at Don. "The case was supposed to be a slam-dunk. You know the Vegas office only called us in because of their internal investigation right now. If Charlie hadn't figured out there was something hinky in the eyewitness testimony, we'd all be at the craps table by now, having the fun weekend we planned."

Don opened his mouth to answer, but the doctor's voice floated over to him just then. "We'll do an x-ray to be sure, but I don't think these ribs are even cracked. Some mighty impressive bruising, though." Don advanced as far as he could and looked over Colby's shoulder. Charlie's checkered shirt was open and an oblong bruise stretched almost the entire width of his chest, just below the sternum. The doctor suddenly chuckled. "I'll tell ya kid, we were watching the monitor back here and when we saw you come squirting outta that barrel like a greased monkey, we started a 'rock-paper-scissors' game to call who got the case. We were sure you'd need something more impressive than a few stitches and a pat on the back."

Don pushed roughly at Colby, who threw all his weight back into him. "Just get the hell away from my brother. A 1,700 lb. bull named 'Paranoid Delusions' just threw him halfway to Kansas. Just get away from him and I'll take him to a real doctor."

Finished with Charlie's stitches, his doctor sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Actually, that ain't true. 'Paranoid" just tossed the barrel around a good bit, managed to hook a horn through it and turned it upside down. Junior here came tumbling out like a cork being pulled from a wine bottle. Didn't you get to see it? We probably got a tape somewheres…"

"What would you know about corks in wine bottles?", Don grumbled. "Isn't a twist-off cap about the most you can handle?"

"St-ow-op it, D-ow-on…" Charlie was trying to struggle into a sitting position. The doctor pushed him back down with one finger, then stood and looked at Don.

"I'll just be getting' that there portable x-ray tech, if y'all don't mind," he drawled, and passed closely enough to Don so that Don could see the man was almost a foot taller than he was, and at least 75 pounds heavier.

"Damn…", Colby muttered, and while he was distracted, Don got past him. In three steps he stood over Charlie.

"Convince me not to kill you myself, right now."

Charlie looked up and swallowed. "I…uh….they said I would be safe, in the barrel. Johnson was in the barrel the night he was killed, and I just wanted to…"

Don gripped Charlie's shoulder so hard his brother gasped. "Who told you that it was safe, huh? OUR BIGGEST DAMN SUSPECT, that's who!"

Charlie tried to twist away from him. "I…I didn't know…Don, that _hurts_…"

Don squeezed harder. "You didn't know because you're not an agent, Charlie. Colby and I don't tell you everything; but that is DAMN SURE not a two-way street. You tell us anything you think might have a bearing on any case you consult on. You clear all your harebrained ideas with US, not with some idiot who's probably going to lose his shield soon anyway!" The Vegas agent slunk out the door, followed closely by Colby.

Charlie's eyes started to water, a stream of tears cutting a trail through the white grease paint on his face. "Please, Donnie, you're hurting me…"

Don suddenly realized how tightly he gripped Charlie's shoulder and let go. He ran the offending hand through his hair. "I just don't think you have any idea," he started. His voice was calmer, but that was even more frightening, somehow. "You cannot have any idea. One second I'm groaning along with the rest of the audience, feeling sorry for some dumb, nameless, clown, and the next I'm recognizing my brother bouncing off the fence and rolling between the hooves of a 1,700 lb. bull."

Charlie's eyes flashed at Don and he spoke angrily. "Still carry your badge, Don? Still spend three-quarters of your life chasing people who want to kill you? Still have that scar on your arm, and the other one, down by your hip?" Charlie was yelling, now, and had managed to sit halfway up during the tirade. "Because if you do, then I think I HAVE SOME IDEA, DAMMIT! **I HAVE SOME IDEA**!" Charlie deflated and sank back on the table, curling onto his side away from Don. "Just go away. Leave me alone."

Don stood over him, guilt warring with anger. "I am a trained agent, Charlie. Are you a trained rodeo bullfighter? It's different."

Charlie stayed on his side and raised a hand to his face. He covered his eyes. "Why? Fear is fear, Don. Loss is loss. Living without you would be living without you, no matter how many asinine certificates and commendations you have!"

_Living without you_…Don sighed heavily and knew that's what all his anger simmered down to: An undeniable, unbelievable, unequivocal reluctance to live without Charlie. He placed a hand on Charlie's back, softly this time, and began to rub small circles. "Please," he begged, "please. Don't do this kind of thing to me again."

Charlie sniffed. "I won't."

"Promise?"

Charlie nodded his orange head. "Really. No bull."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

END


End file.
